#boris liatoukine

They came from every corner of Europe. From crumbling castles on windswept mountaintops, from ancient estates long fallen into ruin, from mountain and forest and moor they came, nightmares given form, shadows given substance. Some greeted each other with respectful nods, but most slipped into the defiled House of Lords without a word, claiming whatever shadowy corner they could find. With the room redecorated to Dracula’s tastes, there were ample shadows to go around.

Arthur Holmwood stood stiffly at his new master’s side, waving forced greetings at each guest as they filed in one by one. His mind railed against the bars of its prison to no avail, and he knew it was fruitless; if Jonathan and Mina could not defy Dracula’s will, how could he?

Go and introduce yourself to the guests, my pet, purred a low voice in his brain. He felt Dracula’s hold on his limbs go slack. Be my eyes and ears. See what you can learn.

Arthur’s legs began to carry him across the room. It was a relief to be out of Dracula’s presence, but he dreaded the company of the other fiends who had been summoned here, all as yet unknown to him. He passed the long dining tables that had been set up in the center of the room, each bearing the unconscious forms of men, six in all. Dracula, taking no chances, had had them chained to the tables. Arthur did not look at the men. He knew he would recognize at least a couple of the faces there, and did not want to think about the fate which awaited them.

Dark stains painted the carpet, the furniture, and even the walls of the chamber, signs of the recent slaughter that had taken place. Dracula’s conquest of the English government had been bloody and vicious; when the House of Lords had refused to bow to him, he had made a brutal example of them. Now, half a dozen of their survivors made up tonight’s menu.

A raven-haired girl leaned over one of the velvet ropes sectioning off the banquet table, gazing hungrily at the stupefied men. She looked to be Lucy’s age at the oldest—Arthur’s heart ached at the very thought—with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, a far cry from the pale, ashen countenances worn by most of the guests. An older woman rose from her seat, taking the girl by the arm and pulling her back. She was dressed like a widow in deep mourning, her face obscured by a dark veil.

“Not yet, child,” she scolded the girl, who sighed and collapsed melodramatically onto the nearest seat.

Arthur found his legs carrying him towards the pair. “Welcome,” he said to them, “it’s an honor to have you with us tonight.”

The older woman looked up at him, and he made out the eerie glint of her eyes beneath the veil.

“It is an honor to be here,” she said slowly. Her gaze seemed to be boring right into his flesh. “Give your master my regards. This is...a momentous occasion for us all.”

The girl was scrutinizing him now, with something like sadness in her eyes, but she said nothing. Arthur, finding their twin stares unnerving, hastily excused himself and continued his circuit of the room. His legs locked up in front of a man who had monopolized one of the long benches, sprawling across it in a leisurely fashion and shooting contemptuous glares at anyone who ventured too close. He trained one on Arthur now, and it made the stares of the two women seem friendly and welcoming by comparison.

“Run along, pup,” he sneered. “I have no words for you or your master.”

Arthur regained control of his limbs several seconds later than he would have liked, and hurried away from the man. He nearly collided with a couple who were proceeding, arm and arm, between the rows of seats, pointing and laughing at the other guests as they went.

“Watch where you’re going!” snarled the lady of the pair. The two of them looked as if they had not changed their clothes in nearly a century; what must have been fine dress at the start of the century was now faded and worn threadbare. Their hair was wind-swept, and the woman’s hung free and loose around her shoulders, elf-locked and wild.

The man smirked to his companion and muttered something that sounded like, “Edgar.” She burst into a wild peal of laughter.

Arthur stammered out a hasty apology and introduction. The man sneered at him, but held out one dark-skinned hand for him to shake.

“Heathcliff,” he said. “And my lady, Catherine Earnshaw.”

“Linton,” she corrected him.

“Nonsense,” said Heathcliff. Catherine rolled her eyes at him.

“Have it your way, then,” she huffed.

“You’ll be fighting for your title soon, eh, Lord Godalming?” said Heathcliff. “Better keep well out of our way. Cathy and I are moving up in the world tonight.”

And with another laugh, the pair moved on.

Now Arthur’s treacherous legs brought him face to face with a tall man garbed in the uniform of a Russian officer. His eyes, yellow and slitted like a cat’s, peered at Arthur with a look more predatory than any he had yet seen.

“Jó estét, Drakula gróf. Köszönthetne engem személyesen is, tudja, ahelyett, hogy a bábját küldené.”

“S-sorry, sir, I’m afraid I don’t speak...whatever that is,” Arthur stammered.

“Don’t worry,” the man replied, “I was not talking to you.”

He blinked, and Arthur bit back a gasp of surprise as his slit pupils seemed to double. He raised a glass of wine to his lips (Arthur could have sworn his hands were empty) and downed it in a single draught.

“Are you still here?” said the man. “Run along, I’m sure you have plenty more guests to spy on.”

Arthur wondered, bitterly, what the point was of Dracula sending him around the room like this when every vampire seemed to instantly see what he was up to.

Suddenly, a hand gripped the back of his neck and tugged, and the world seemed to freeze. Guests froze in their tracks, and the soft noises of the gathering fell away entirely as the dull orange glow of the few candles that lit the room turned to an icy silver that picked out the edges of every shape. Arthur realized, abruptly, that he was staring at the back of his own head. The person holding him spun him around.

He looked, as far as Arthur could tell, like some sort of African prince. His turban and fine clothes, dyed in rich and colorful hues, stood out all the more in the strange and shadowy space Arthur now found himself in.

“Look at you, all strung up like a fly in a spider’s web.”

And Arthur saw that, indeed, fine silvery lines wound about his limbs. He turned, and saw that they stretched back to the frozen figure of Dracula…

...and that some sort of nearly-human shape hovered in the air over Dracula’s head, reaching spindly limbs down to grasp at him. It was frozen like all the rest, but as Arthur watched, it slowly turned its head to look at him.

“Don’t look at that thing,” said the black man quickly. “Don’t call its attention. Better it play its games with your master than with any of us.”

“What is it?” Arthur whispered.

The man grinned at him. “A guest,” he said. “When you send out a call like Dracula did, you had better be prepared for all manner of things to answer it. There’s far stranger than vampires that lurk in the dark corners of the earth.”

“Who are you?” Arthur asked.

“Call me Segun,” said the man. From the folds of his silk jacket he withdrew a curved dagger and cut the threads that circled Arthur’s limbs. He then took out a little doll made of straw and carefully tied the end of each thread around the limbs of the doll.

“That ought to buy you a little breathing room, at least for tonight,” said Segun. “He can still see through your eyes, though, so don’t stray too far or he’ll catch on.”

“Can’t he see you doing this, then?” Arthur asked.

“No.” Segun grinned and pointed at the still form of Arthur’s own body, facing away from them. “Your eyes are over there.”

“Well...thank you, I suppose,” said Arthur, though his heart sank at the limits of his newfound freedom.

“Don’t look so glum,” said Segun. “Your master isn’t likely to live much longer. If none of us does in for him tonight, the nations of the world will do it tomorrow. Old Dracula’s days are numbered.”

And with one last smile, he gave Arthur a little shove, and he fell back into his own body. Color, movement, and noise returned to the room. Arthur whirled around, but Segun was gone. In his place was a veiled Arab woman, sizing Arthur up with a look that made him think of carving-knives. He hurried away, glancing as he did so back to where Dracula stood. The space above him was entirely empty.

The chamber afforded few places to hide. Arthur settled for loitering against one wall, in a space that was neither too occupied nor too bloodstained. His eyes darted frequently to the figure of Dracula, fearful that Segun’s meddling would be noticed.

“Now here is a face I do not recognize,” said a voice by Arthur’s elbow. He jumped, whirling around, and looked up into the face of the tallest man he’d ever seen. The man, who looked like he was halfway to becoming an Egyptian mummy, looked Arthur up and down with interest.

“You have the eyes of our host,” the man continued, “but you are certainly no Transylvanian. And you have the lost look of the newly turned. You must be a fellow Englishman.”

“A fellow Englishman!” Arthur echoed with a start. Well, Heathcliff and Catherine had had Northern accents, but this fellow sounded like a well-off Londoner. Did such creatures already lurk in the heart of London?

“Don’t look so surprised,” said the tall man. “We’ve been here for centuries. I myself was born and died under the reign of the third Edward, and old Lord Ruthven was already ancient even then.” He indicated the lounging man who had dismissed Arthur earlier.

Arthur’s mind reeled. The man who stood before him was over five hundred years old. Lord Ruthven was older still—perhaps old enough to remember when the Romans had been here.

“Ah, but do pardon me, I forget my manners,” said the tall man. He held out a hand for Arthur to shake. “Sir Francis Varney, at your service.”

“Arthur Holmwood, at yours,” said Arthur nervously. A moment later he remembered to add, “Viscount Godalming.” The title tasted like ash in his mouth.

Sir Francis Varney chuckled. “You might be the only legitimate English Lord in this room. Well, I suppose one of Ruthven’s titles might be legitimate, though I doubt he’s ever shown up for any matters of government before.”

Arthur nodded his head, a trifle resentfully, at the dinner tables. Varney gave them no more than a glance, his lip curling in distaste.

“Nothing to be done for them, I’m afraid. This is why I so dislike associating with my kin. I only came here tonight to gauge how far I must run to escape the impending catastrophe. From the state of this room, I suspect the Moon might not be far enough.”

“Catastrophe?” said Arthur, puzzled. “Is this not a positive development for...for vampires?”

“A positive development? Are you out of your mind? We have survived for thousands of years by keeping to the shadows, and now this madman wants to drag us all into the light of day, for the scrutiny of the whole world! Already other nations are preparing for war. There are rumors that the Vatican is declaring a new crusade. Our kind will be massacred, and it will be the weakest and most harmless among us who suffer the most.”

“How harmless can a vampire be?” asked Arthur. His mind turned to Lucy with a pang of guilt. Would Sir Francis have considered her “harmless”?

“I suppose it is a matter of perspective,” said Varney. “But do not think our kind are well represented by the fiends gathered here tonight. Most of us merely want to live—and a few of us simply cannot figure out how to die. Why, the last time I was in Germany, I met a pair who were scarcely more than boys. The one had died in a fishing accident, and came back that he might not be parted from his friend. In the coming storm, they will be some of the first to fall.”

“I had never thought of it like that before,” said Arthur. “Dracula spoke of his conquest as a great stride for vampirekind. He said he was going to turn England into a haven for vampires.” He shuddered at the thought.

“A haven!” Varney gave a bitter laugh. “He has never come face to face with an English mob before, I am sure of it. And even if he can subjugate the people within our borders, he will never hold off the world outside. If that old warlord lives through the end of tonight, he will bring us all to ruin.”

“Do you think it very likely that he will die tonight?”

Varney gestured around the room.

“This room is full of people who want him dead, many of them ancient and powerful beyond mortal imagining. We are a proud race; no vampire who has made a name for him or herself over the centuries would bow their head before another. I have pointed out Lord Ruthven to you already; he is old as the Devil and twice as wicked, and he will not abide having his way of life interrupted. That woman sitting there is the Countess Karnstein; the preternatural powers of her line are nearly as legendary as their bloodthirst. And the gentleman in the Russian officer’s uniform can only be Prince Liatoukine. He is as old as the tsardom, and some say he is Ivan the Terrible himself. As for the stories about him…” He broke off with a shudder.

“Giving introductions, Francis? I think there is someone you are forgetting.”

A woman had appeared on the other side of Varney, looking as if she had stepped off the pages of a Parisian fashion magazine. She was tall, elegant, and fair-haired, and an expression of mischief played about her handsome features.

“Clarimonde,” said Varney. “Are you also plotting to kill Dracula?”

Clarimonde gave a little musical laugh. “Are you?”

“Only naming all the vipers he has let into his den, ere they begin to bite.”

Clarimonde’s lip curled, her expression turning sour. “I hope they devour him and leave no trace. I cannot imagine what he is thinking, to reveal our kind to the world in such a fashion. Already there is unrest in the streets of Paris; I have had to shutter the Concini Palace for my own safety. The times will be long and lean for those of us who manage to weather the storm.”

“To say nothing of England,” muttered Arthur.

Clarimonde’s demeanor brightened in an instant, as if she had just spotted an adorable puppy in a shop window. “And who is this, then?” she said.

“Clarimonde, the Lord Godalming,” said Varney. “And this is the Lady Clarimonde, the most prestigious courtesan in all of Paris.”

Clarimonde curtseyed to him, while Arthur tried to conceal his surprise. She laughed at his flustered state.

“I like this one, Francis. When we make our flight from Europe, we ought to take him with us.”

“Flight from Europe!” cried Arthur. “Is the situation so hopeless, then?”

“Dracula has revealed us to the world. That action cannot be undone, even if he is killed,” said Clarimonde, her voice once more growing solemn.

“At the very least, it would be prudent to lie low for a century or two,” said Varney. “Somewhere remote. Australia, maybe, or Japan.”

“You and I would stick out like sore thumbs in Japan and you know it, Francis,” said Clarimonde. “America is our best bet. If we can make it there undetected, we can vanish into its frontier and never be seen again.”

Arthur’s head spun. His world had been turned so far on its head tonight that he was sure it had made multiple revolutions. Once, his world had been a simple battle of good and evil: him and his friends versus Dracula. But evil had triumphed, and now was showing sides of itself that were far more complicated than Arthur had ever imagined. Once more he felt a horrible pang of guilt over Lucy’s death. What if, rather than putting down a monster, he really had murdered his own beloved? What if there had been a chance for her after all? He would have fed her from his own veins if it came to it.

And what for him? If the predictions of the vampires he’d met tonight came true—if Dracula died, and he found himself masterless once more—was there any hope for him? Maybe there was. He could run away, find Jack, and they could go traveling together, just like old times.

Almost just like old times. Tears sprung to his eyes as he thought of Quincey, now dead at Dracula’s hands, along with Professor van Helsing. Their little band had been shattered under the monster’s fist, and would now never be whole again.

Snatches of conversation drifted into his ears. Clarimonde and Varney were still talking, though they had moved on from the topic of escape.

“I see a certain Hungarian is absent,” said Clarimonde. Varney chuckled in response.

“As if Lorand would dare to show his face around the real Dracula. I suspect he fled at the first inkling of the news.”

“Excuse us.”

A woman had approached them, tall and stately, with silver hair and a foreign costume that Arthur thought might be Turkish. With her was, to Arthur’s great surprise, a living man. He had one hand fixed on the hilt of a sword sheathed at his belt, and his eyes darted vigilantly about the room. The woman spoke something in a foreign language, and the man relayed her words in thickly accented English:

“It is unwise to speak so freely here.”

The woman turned her attention fully to Arthur. Her eyes glowed like candle-flames. She spoke once again, and though her words were in the same strange language as before, this time Arthur could understand every word.

“What I speak shall not reach your master’s ears.”

Dread rose in Arthur’s gut and crept into his throat. Had Dracula been listening through him this whole time? Had he heard all that Varney and Clarimonde had said? He glanced at the pair of them, who were now staring at him with alarm.

“You don’t plan to tell him anything, do you?” said Varney nervously.

“He has no choice,” said the silver-haired woman. “The Hungarian can see through his eyes, and hear through his ears.”

Varney let out a string of colorful swears. “Damn these Carpathian vampires and their devilry!” he muttered.

The silver-haired woman smiled at him. “We can be rather cunning, it is true.”

Varney looked up, horrified. “My sincerest apologies, ma’am,” he said. “I should have realized you were—”

She waved him off with a gesture. “No offense taken. May I know your names, sirs and madam?”

Varney hastily introduced the three of them. The woman beamed at them.

“I am Princess Smerande Brankovan,” she said. “I shall instruct my son to spare you, when the time comes.”

And with that, she was gone, moving away to speak with the Arab woman.

“Brankovan!” Varney muttered. “I had no idea there were any left.”

Clarimonde tugged at his arm, shooting a wary glance in Arthur’s direction. Before they could depart, though, a pair of men approached them. Their attire was fine, but ill-fitting, and Arthur thought he saw a drop of blood on one of their collars.

“Excuse us,” said one of the men in a thick German accent. “Are you Francis Varney?”

“Yes?” said Varney warily. He looked as if he were getting ready to run.

The two men’s faces broke into matching grins. “I told you, Sigismund!” said the other man. “Herr Varney, it’s an honor.”

“Is it?” said Varney faintly.

“One of the oldest vampires around, I’d say it is!” said Sigismund. “They say you’re the second oldest vampire in all of England. Is that true?”

Varney was staring over their heads, his expression frozen in shock. “Third-oldest,” he murmured. Arthur followed his gaze, and saw another woman entering the room.

She looked like a marble statue that had wandered out of some medieval cathedral. Her skin was so pale it was almost blue, paler even than the white of her dress, which was cut in the style of the High Middle Ages. Her flaxen hair glittered with jewels. She moved almost as if floating, her face fixed in an expression of dreamy melancholy. Arthur found himself reminded of the Lady of Shalott.

“Who is that?” said Sigismund.

“That, if I am not mistaken, is the lady Geraldine,” said Varney in a hushed tone. “She has been presumed dead for centuries. Why she would choose to reveal herself now, I cannot fathom...”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Lord Ruthven sit bolt upright, his jaw hanging open. Several others seemed to recognize Geraldine as well, and a chorus of whispers went up around the room. She paid them all no heed, crossing the room with all the implacable coldness of a glacier and taking a seat on one of the benches near the center. Her pale figure seemed nearly luminous in the dim light.

Dracula rose and spread his arms wide to greet the assembly.

“Brothers and sisters, welcome!” he said. “It is an honor to receive you all here. Tonight is a momentous occasion; tonight, we shall become the architects of a new era of shadows! But first…”

With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the tables on which the six unconscious Lords lay.

Nizet mixes the elements here around and plays with them, subverting or removing some and adding other characters as suit the needs of her plot, but the bones of the Ruthven-Aubrey dynamic especially are preserved in Liatoukine and Relia, and BOY does Nizet put MEAT on those bones. Liatoukine is Ruthven perfected: in addition to social power, he now holds institutional and hierarchical power. His vampiric nature has leaked out into his unsavory reputation, but does not impact his high status. Ruthven's habit of turning up in unexpected places when he ought to be dead, Nizet elevates into a whole new ability: that of Liatoukine to exist in two places at once. His ability to return from the dead is utilized to chilling effect, emphasizing his ruthlessness and sadism. The blood-drinking aspect of vampirism does not play a major role in Captain Vampire, but Nizet uses it to fill out her metaphor: Liatoukine's first wife is Polish, and his third, Epistimia, is half Romanian and half Serbian. The walking metaphor for the Russian state marrying these women, killing them, and drinking their blood is, shall we say, very pointed.

Relia, too, is a perfected Aubrey. Nizet takes the homosexual subtext of Aubrey's fascination with Ruthven and makes it textual, then turns it on him in horrific fashion. Gone are the fridged women every Ruthven adaptor ever loves to use to torment their Aubrey expies; Relia suffers directly, and brutally, at the hands of Liatoukine and his men. Aubrey's classism, barely a side note in the original Vampyre story, is turned into a flaw and an arc for Relia. A recurring feature in several versions of the Ruthven story is that, as a result of Ruthven's oathbinding (or in Dumas's version, some Varney-style gaslighting), Aubrey (or Gilbert or Ronald or whoever) is made to appear mad, and ends up being confined for his health. This confinement further adds to his powerlessness. Nizet ups the ante and just sends Relia to actual prison. And Liatoukine doesn't need oathbinding to silence Relia; the war takes care of that for him. (I also get the sense that, had Relia survived the war somehow, Liatoukine probably would have had him killed some other way. That boy was never going to get the chance to warn his sister.)

Mariora-Ianthe is where the comparison becomes a little less direct, as Mariora fills both the Ianthe role and that of the unnamed Italian girl I mentioned above. Mariora being ambushed by Liatoukine in the woods parallels Ianthe's fate; however, Nizet doesn't fridge her like Polidori does, because she actually gives a shit about her female characters. Mariora is the lower-class girl Relia is friends with despite his classism, but the Aubrey-Ianthe similarities end there, as Relia is gay and therefore not interested in Mariora romantically. The comparison can be picked back up if we drag Ioan into the mix; Relia is a much clearer Aubrey stand-in in terms of status and personality, but a few details of the character are getting passed to Ioan in the larger cast of Captain Vampire. Ioan is, after all, the one who survives to attend the wedding of Epistimia and Liatoukine—but by that point, he's so defeated by everything he's gone through that he doesn't even attempt to raise the alarm. And all of Liatoukine's vindictive moves throughout the story are, after all, part of the psychological game he is playing against Ioan; through this lens Mariora slots neatly into the Ianthe role, and interestingly, Relia shares it with her.

Mariora is more relevant to the Relia-as-Aubrey reading in the role of that Italian girl who, in the original Vampyre, exists only to be a plot point. Like Aubrey, Relia interrupts Liatoukine/Ruthven before he is able to commit an act of violation; and like Ruthven, Liatoukine retaliates cruelly against him. Nizet's willingness to torture Relia directly makes for stronger character writing and more effective horror, and also allows her to give her female characters (Mariora in this case) much more depth, rather than them only serving as props for the men. What if Ianthe survived? What story would she have to tell? How would she fare in the aftermath? Polidori and his stage imitators are not interested in these questions, but Nizet is, and tackles them with a deftness her predecessors can only dream of.

Epistimia is an interesting twist on her respective role. Aubrey's sister is never named; she is not characterized to any degree whatsoever. Gilbert's sister and Lord Ronald's daughter (the corresponding victims from Dumas's Le Vampire and Bride of the Isles respectively) have slightly larger roles, but are still given the bare minimum of characterization. It's the Stock Victorian Female Character, you've all seen it. But Epistimia doesn't fit that mold. She's a social climber, she's austere, she's a bully, she smokes cigarettes. Relia is Aubrey but he's also Cinderella, and Epistimia fills the role of evil stepsister at the same time as she is victim of the vampire. And although she does die as per the formula, her death is made to mean something more than a shock value ending or tragic man pain. Relia isn't even around to witness it. Rather, Epistimia's death serves to tie the narrative together symbolically, representing Liatoukine's—and through him, Russia's—final grim triumph. The Romanian bride is wedded, murdered, and drained of lifeblood, just as the Romanian protagonists are killed off and the survivors left traumatized and broken.

Captain Vampire throws down the gauntlet! How will Kostaki respond?

...AND THAT'S GAME, FOLKS! Thank you all for coming out here tonight, your regularly scheduled Varney posting will resume...

...uh...

...I may have just a few more Kostaki posts to get out of my system first.